At a friend’s suggestion, my husband and I went to see a live performance of The Shadow Box. We were unfamiliar with this Pulitzer Prize-winning 1977 play by Michael Cristofer.
In a compelling, 24-hour dramatic triptych, three terminally cancer patients dwell in separate hospice cottages on a hospital’s grounds. They focus on raw emotional struggles in the face of mortality and family dynamics.
We found each actor believable and captivating as they delivered their lines. Watching the performance, deep emotions rose, but for us, void of the ‘warm and fuzzy’ feeling kind. Everyone has a cross to bear. That’s a fact. But I want to share my sentiments after we watched the play.
SPOILER ALERT:
The middle-aged married couple clearly lacks honest communication with one another. They hadn’t seen each other in six months due to expenses. The wife is in denial about her husband’s impending death. Their teenage son doesn’t even know that his father is dying. The couple reflects on the life they could have had. The husband feels that owning your home symbolizes life, now out of reach.
Another patient feels that everyone must live life on their own terms. He is a dreamer, a writer juggling between his unwelcome alcoholic, promiscuous ex-wife and his boyfriend/caretaker with benefits. The boyfriend is full of complaints and disgusted by the ex. Both lash out in anger.
“How is he?”
“Dying. How are you?”
“Well, I think we’ve got that all straight now. He’s dying. I’m drunk. And you’re pissed off.”
They continuously talked about their conquests and victories, which are not worth repeating. Trying to find common ground, they danced.
Finally, another is a blind and elderly senile patient. She is in pain. But she refuses to die before she gets a visit from her daughter. Yet, her daughter has been dead for years. She seems to ignore her living daughter, her caretaker, who remains by her side. The ‘unseen’ weary but devoted daughter does her best in caring for her dying mother. But she is giving her mother false hope. She attempts to appease her mother by writing and reading fictional letters to her. The letters come from a daughter who is long dead.
Later, her mama naps in the wheelchair, head tilted to one side. Although asleep, the daughter continues speaking to her. “Mama, if I told you the truth, would you listen? If I told you the truth now, would you think I was lying? I don’t remember the good times anymore. I used to think we had something to go back to, but I don’t remember what it is. All I can remember is this: pushing … and pulling … and hurting – this is all I can remember. It all went wrong! What happened, Mama? There must have been a time when you loved me. Oh, Mama, if I told you the truth now, would it matter?”
As I listened to the daughter’s palpable agony, I caught a snippet of my own life with my mama. We didn’t always have the best communication skills. But I loved her. Deep down, I knew she loved me. Still, her affections went toward her youngest child, her golden boy, whom she had given birth to later in life. For five years, we cared for Mama in our home. Then she developed cancer in her stomach and needed surgery. Afterwards, not wanting to do the work in rehab that required both physical and occupational therapy, Mama never fully recovered. It gave us some time, seven months to be exact. She remained bedridden, and her muscles became atrophied. In many ways, I felt helpless in knowing what to do for her. I had asked God to help me make the right decisions and be strong for her.
My heart ached while watching the play, hearing the wife tell her husband how she wanted him home.
“I want you to come home. I want you to go out four nights a week bowling. Then come home so I can yell and not talk to you. I want to fight so that you’ll take me to a movie. And by the time I finally get you to take me, I am so upset. I can’t even enjoy the picture. I want to wake up too early. And I’ll let you know about it, too. You wake me up too early to make you breakfast because you never want to eat it. You wake me up too early to keep you company and talk to you. And it’s cold, and my back aches, and we’ve got nothing to say to each other. And we never talk; and it’s 6:30 in the morning—every morning—even Sunday morning. And it’s alright! It’s alright! Because I want to be there, you need me to be there. Because I want you to be there, because I want you to come home!”
But of course, he can’t go home … because he’s dying.
In conclusion, one of the characters said, and I agree, “You always think you have more time. And you don’t.”
Although each character in this production dealt with terminal illness, my husband and I left feeling empty, exhausted, and sad. Other than the understanding that no one will live forever, there were no moral conclusions. Each character focused on their past, reminiscing about their lives before illness. Not much hope for what was to come. No preparation.
As a Christian, whether I live or die, my hope is in the Lord. “To be absent from the body and to be present with the Lord.” II Corinthians 5:8.
“Death to the Christian is the funeral of all his sorrows and evils, and the resurrection of all his joys.” ~James H. Aughey
Your turn. How do you wrestle with the reality of mortality and faith?
From Heart to Heritage
Reflections From the Heart 